


for every stone a step

by ChevreJaune



Series: the rose potter files [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Female Harry Potter, Friendship, Gen, Hogwarts First Year, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-05-01 08:32:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14516466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChevreJaune/pseuds/ChevreJaune
Summary: Bookworm, teacher's pet, tattle-tell, show-off. Smart, mature, reliable. Punctual, eager. Unpretty.It's not that Hermione doesn't think the words apply to her. It's just, well.She thinks she can be more than all that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The second part of this is in progress. It has more interactions so, ya know. Wait for it, I'm to be done soon.  
> Hopefully this first-part, my attempt to flesh out Hermione's character (in the verse), does not disappoint.

 

 

 

At age eight, Hermione Granger is known as the Smart Kid of The Class. She's learnt her multiplication tables twice as fast as anyone in her year, and she has read _all_ of the books in their small primary school library. Perhaps she doesn’t need to learn the periodic table, but. She has to do _something_ at recess. 

She has brains; she achieves; she learns. Her teachers tell her parents that she has so much potential, she can be _anyone_.

Hermione thinks it’s nice, of course, but she’s fine being Hermione. Still, she plans to be the best Hermione there is. She stops bringing home novels and subscribes to science magazines. She doesn’t understand much of it yet, but she’ll get there. Her father likes to ask her questions to urge her to think. Her mother quizzes her like they are at a trivia game whenever she requires Hermione to help her with kitchen tasks. At these games, she _shines_.

Her teachers tell her parents she is so great already, she can do _anything_ she put her mind to. Something deep inside her clenches and throbs. Yes, yes, _yes_. She knows she can do things – _anything_ – sometimes. Amazing thinks. Incredible things.

It goes beyond pure reason, and so she doesn’t tell. 

 

000

 

 

At age ten, her parents bring her to Greece to reward her semester of straight A’s. With the monuments, the museums and the weight of the history and of the myths, Hermione could not be happier.

Until one morning, she wakes up and there is an antique marble busts in her hotel room.

She thinks it's strange. She thinks she must still be in that stade of hesitant lucidity, where dreams can stick to your eyelids and make you wonder what is part of the awake world and what isn't. This sort of feeling usually dispels when her parents greet her, and this one doesn't. Neither does the Venus sitting on her suitcase.

Her father says, after a moment, _isn't that the missing statue on the news?_ And then he adds, _how did it get there?_    
  


Hermione's mother sighs.

 

000

 

 

 _Magic_ , three strangers dressed in red togas tell her.

She would scoff, except they actually popped into existence at the foot of her bed, and she's still processing that.

A month before she turns eleven, Hermione Granger is told with little fanfare, _you’re a witch._

She’s heard it before, but this time, it doesn’t make her want to punch someone in the face.

 

 

000

 

 

It changes everything.

Her carefully laid plans about secondary school become obsolete. She has extensively researched the extracurricular programs, the comparative size of each school’s library, the qualifications of all the teachers she could find, the big names, the exciting teaching methods. Hours upon hours of meticulous analysis and cross-references.

She could get a great education, the best in the country. Have dazzling teachers with as much compassion as they had inquiring minds. Or. 

Or, she could have magic.

Hermione has never needed less time to make a decision.

 

000

 

Here's the rub:

She could never sit still in a class about physics, knowing some people could break its laws with a wave of a wand. She could not stay quiet in history class when she was now aware that the so-called “Muggles” – everyone she had considered to be normal people a week before – had such a glaring blind spot. Fairytales and legends, everything had to be re-examined now that the known variables had changed. The new paradigm was too much to take in at once, but already questions race through Hermione’s mind.

Can magic cure _cancer_? Can wizards and witches teleport? Did magic come from a genome mutation? Was it a fluke?

The fact that Hogwart’s only celebrated club is a sports club – with a few side activities listed, but none too academically oriented – doesn't even tamper her glee.

Neither can Professor McGonagall’s utterly blank look when Hermione delves into the topic of the human genome. 

 

 

000

 

 

Midway through her introductory textbook, an alarming thought occurs to her.

Professor McGonagall hadn’t only been ignorant of biochemistry and quantum physics; she had also appeared clueless about submarines and tanks, as well as satellites and the moon landing.The woman had been extremely knowledgeable in her field, though. Minerva McGonagall had explained the charms behind platform 9 and ¾ easily, and Hermione’s mother had commented on how amazing it was that she commented on it as if it were a small thing. Professor McGonagall had blinked; it wasn’t, she assured, it took many experts to set it up properly, but overall, it was still rather common and expected that these sorts of things would work.

Hermione had thought _, like explaining a cellphone to someone from the centuries past_.

Of course, this has to mean something else – something very worrisome indeed: that the gap between magical and non-magical is far greater than she suspected. Wizards and witches could manipulate reality with a flick of the wrist, and they’d been at it for centuries. Of course it would be so. 

How behind Hermione would lag, learning of those possibilities only now.

‘The problem is dire,’ she announces at dinner. ‘Mum, dad. Can you imagine?’

Her mother nods. ‘It’s certainly very exciting.’

 _No_ , she wants to say, but they wouldn’t understand that. That she’d be a laughing stock. Other children would take advantage of the holes in her knowledge. They’d tell her witches could fly if they sung, and watch and cackle as she plummeted to her death.

‘Think of how many sectors of research could intersect famously,’ her father pops in, looking greatly enthused. He had been speaking of Herbology and dentistry ever since they’d found a book about the many uses of chewing Thunderroots.

Her mother fills her plate with Chinese cabbage and sweet corn. ‘Darling, it’s still a school. You do school better than anyone else.’

Her father adds a bit of peas to her pile and smiles. ‘You’ve always done school better than anyone.’

 _Breathe_ , _Hermione_ , she tells herself. She would read a lot, and refuse to believe any nonsense without proof. It’s a sound, solid plan. 

 _Breathe_ , she repeats, and repeats, until she doesn’t have to pull each breath forward.

Kids could be cruel, but Hermione could outsmart pettiness. 

 

 

 

000

 

 

‘Who goes first?’

As the only magical person in her family, it should be her. However, she has this niggling doubt – that maybe you need to believe. And she still allows for the possibility that this is a dream. A vivid, colorful, complex - and quite lengthy at this point - hallucination. Maybe she tripped in Greece and has been in a coma ever since and her imagination is finally getting a workout.

‘Do you want me to go first, dear?’ her mother asks when the hesitation sees no end. Her voice is soft, but it sounds weary. They all had trouble sleeping. 

‘No!’ Hermione says, because she's going to be a Gryffindor this year.

Also, if it’s a test of faith, her father would be the only one to pass it. Except her father is Not Magical, not in that sense. She doesn't want to earn him a broken nose.

She just. She doesn't know. 

‘Are you going to dither about all day, girl?’ a sharp voice asks from behind her.

Face flushed, Hermione pivots. They’d only be standing there a minute or so!

‘Madam,’ she greets, her righteousness shaken by the horrid stuffed vulture adorned on the woman’s hat.

‘Muggleborn, then.’ Hermione sees a boy with chubby cheeks standing behind the old lady, looking mightily uncomfortable. ‘Well, go on them. The passage is right there, see. You only need walk through it at a brisk pace.’

Old people are impatient, Hermione reminds herself, and it has nothing to do with any of us.

But there’s something about the curt rasp of the lady – a voice dry like crackers – and the wince of the boy which annoys her. Or it might be the lack of sleep. Nevertheless, she isn’t as courteous when she replies, ‘Well, my parents are muggles, see.’

She only knows she isn’t being too courteous because her mum squeezes her arm like she hasn’t done in years.

The lady doesn’t seem bothered. Rather, she nods as if to approve. ‘They must stay close to you, but they’ll pass. You are far from being the only Muggleborn to accommodate, child.’

‘I know that,’ Hermione grits. People are always telling her things she already knows like they presume her stupid and ignorant. She is so tired of having to thank them for it. Still, she does. She forces a smile. A good little woman she is. ‘Thank you, madam.’

With her father's hand on her right shoulder and her mother's on her left and her eyes tightly shut, Hermione walks through the bricks.

No part of it hurts. It's like a whoosh. Or that may just be the breath she releases when she catches sight of the railways. Or the glorious red steel of the Hogwarts Express.

It’s like all the epic poems, the great novels, she thinks. It begins with a journey. 

 

 

 

000

 

 

 

She’d have helped Neville Longbottom find his toad regardless of whether he’d been that boy with the abrupt lady. After all, kindness is its own reward, all the great philosophers and writers say so. Still, that he is that quiet boy, a child who looks so self-conscious, makes her feel more comfortable. He is not scary. He is not intimidating.

Getting him to talk, she realizes, is like pulling teeth. So she does most of the talking – more talking than she’s done with anyone her age, but she’s nervous about how tearful her mother was and how long boarding would be. Besides, Trevor isn’t turning up, and Neville genuinely seems to listen to her. He’s a tentative friend.

She hasn’t had one in years.

 

 

 

000

 

 

 

‘I’d like Gryffindor, please,’ Hermione thinks loudly as soon as the tattered hat sinks over her brow.

‘Oh, to be young again,’ a voice sighs in her mind. It sounds pretty stuffy, very human – she feels chills on her neck. ‘I’m afraid I’m a Sorting Hat, not a wishing lamp.’

She knows. She read it in _Hogwarts: A History_.

The hat hums. ‘Rowena would take you within her fold without a second thought. You’d be ill at ease anywhere else, I believe.’

‘But Gryffindor – ‘

‘You have principles, yes, you seem ready to defend them with courage aplenty; yet I do not think you’d defend them brashly on the front lines, not when ink and paper serves you so much better. And trust me – I’m an old hat at knowing these things, really – you’d be thrown into more trouble than you’d need in a lifetime with those adventurous Gryffindors.’

Hermione frowns. ‘I can handle all that. I can be that girl.’

‘Of course; the self is ever changing, and I’ve no doubt you could become reckless if you put your mind to it -’

‘- I’m sure they’re not all _reckless_ – ‘

‘ – but do you truly want to? Your nature yearns for substance, research, the quiet of libraries and the wisdom of old tomes. Lions hardly ever think before they act, you know,’ the Sorting Hat comments, sounding fond. ‘I see it in your mind, how little you think of such behaviour. You want to be recognized, you want the best. The best for you is Ravenclaw.’

Hermione scoffs. ‘There is no reason why I shan't grow my mind in Gryffindor. The library is open to all, mind you.’ She conjures the image of Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore. 'If anything, I might learn more from trying something different. There is no indication Gryffindor might impede my intellectual progress.'

The Hat chuckles. ‘Argued like a true Ravenclaw.’

The sudden desire to throw the hat on the ground and stomp on it is surprisingly strong.

She hears the Hat tutting. ‘Throwing a tantrum might be as good a reason as any to sort you with the lions, I suppose. They lack manners, the lot of them.’

It still sounds cheery. Hermione supposes it did use to be Godric Gryffindor’s hat. 'Please,' she thinks.

The foreign presence in her mind _roll its eyes_ before it leaves her, easy as a whisper.

‘GRYFFINDOR,’ the Hat shouts, and she so goes, prim and proud.

Every adult she’s ever met has been telling her she could do and be anything she set her mind to. They had been impressed with her intellect and her sharp curiosity, the way she wielded words and drew ambitious yet solid conclusions. On this night, adorning a fetching shade of scarlet, Hermione feels for the first time like they hadn't been just polite.

She’s part of Gryffindor now. 

Yes. Her potential is limitless, thank you so very much. She's a witch, you see. And she is going to be the best witch of her generation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. stages of friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent the day patching this up from my computer files. I was trying something out with what to say and how to say it to show a certain side of Hermione and of her relationship with others -- in the book, but more precisely here. I hope it works, that it feels at least honest. Feel free to leave comments at the end to tell me how you read it, what you think was well articulated and what could have been approached differently. 
> 
> I'd have kept toying around with it and sculpting it into shape but I'm getting a nauseous headache from staring at my computer screen, so cheers! :D

 

 

It has been explained to Hermione over the years that she is talented in many fields, but not where interpersonal bonding is concerned. _R_ _ubbish at making friends_  to put it succintly. That being said, she meets Neville and Neville seems to like her well enough. And she likes him well enough too.

It seems to indicate that she can do just fine in that department too, if given the chance. 

That’s why when Rose Potter introduces herself and Neville all but trips over himself trying to reply, Hermione decides not to linger in that specific compartment too long. Her new friend is looking clammy and pasty and perhaps even a tad purple. She feels embarrassed at how badly he is handling his obvious crush.

If it means she must postpone asking the Girl-who-Lived all the questions plaguing her, well, it doesn’t bother her. Much.

Besides, the boy sitting with Rose Potter looks quite dim and rude, so. 

All good things in time. 

 

000

 

She doesn't get the chance to speak with Rose Potter at the feast. Hermione goes up to the dormitories. She wants to curl up in a bed with a book. 

When she walks in, there is a cute blonde with a ribbon holding her curls and an Indian girl with wide dark eyes.

Also, there is a ginger haired girl on one of the five beds, observing the scene without much visible emotion. Her pajamas bottoms are overly large. On it, tall trees make for a deep forest design. The leaves rustle on the branches and – for some reason, on the depicted forest ground, there is what appears to be a muscular poacher meeting a ghastly death.

It's creepy. 

 ‘ – but my horoscope clearly said I’d have trouble with transportation, so I was worried about the train, you know – ‘

‘Oh! My father splinched his earlobe on the way to the station – I’m a Gemini, by the way.’

‘A Gemini with a twin? It’s like you’re _doubled_ inside and out!’

‘I know, right? Of course, most of the time Padma acts nothing like an air sign – but honestly, I think it’s because she feels more influence from our rising star. It’s in Capricorn; I think it has little to do with me, but it describes her to a tee when she’s in one of her moods!’

Hermione opens her mouth – how convenient, she wants to say, that astrology is like so many hats you can wear.

The memory of her mother telling her, _sweetie, don’t overwhelm them too soon,_ stops her. She will spend the next seven years sleeping next to those girls. Instead of spouting everything she knows about studies and wishful thinking, she takes a deep breath and mentally counts to three. The first thing she tells this girl isn't going to be about astrology. 

They aren’t as concerned as she is about proper ice breakers. ‘So, Granger, right? What’s your sign?’

‘Merlin, Lav, you can’t just ask her that!’ The Indian girl turns and smiles at her. ‘She didn’t mean it as a pick up line, of course.’

‘That’s fine,’ Hermione replies cautiously, ‘although I don’t believe much in these things.’

‘Muggleborn, then?’

Even more cautiously, Hermione nods. It's the second-time today the question has been asked. Vaguely, she recalls reading about an elective Divination class. Maybe divination and astrology carries more weight in the magical world. Maybe she is the fool for dismissing it.

The curly blond presses on. ‘So, when _is_ your birthday?’

‘September 19th. I was born in 1979.’

The girls exchange a look. 

‘What?’ Hermione asks testily.

‘Oh, nothing –‘

‘Well, it’s just – ‘

The girls speak over each other, then stop and continue as one, ‘You’re a Virgo!’

‘As an Earth sign,’ Parvati lectures, ‘you’re unlikely to take anything spiritual at face value. Too pragmatic – you’ll analyse it as metaphors and evolutionary processes and the like. Virgos, like the Capricorn ascendant, they’re down-to-earth. Bit serious and introverted, totally in control of their emotions but kind of standoffish at times.’

‘That’s troubling,’ Lavender frowns. Hermione feels her shoulders tense up – she has been judged and rejected on many grounds, some of them unfair, but always based on her actions and words, at the very least. But then the girl continues.  ‘I have no idea what kind of birthday party to organize for an Earth sign.’

That catches Hermione wrong-footed. ‘ _Oh_. You don’t have to…’

‘Oh, hush. That’s the Virgo in you talking.'

Parvati beams. 'Yes. Don’t worry, we like a challenge. That's why we're Gryffindors, you see.’

 

 

000

 

Hermione's feeling of warmth subside around the time Lavender asks: ‘Speaking of challenges, why is Rose Potter still not here?’

‘She’s lingering down in the Common Room, I bet. Probably still mingling with the Weasley boys,’ Parvati shrugs, unbothered by the formulation.

Hermione has noticed over dinner – so many witches and wizards recognize each other at a glance, apparently from some tell-tale family traits.

Now twitchy, Hermione blurts out, ‘Why “speaking of challenges”?’

‘Huh?’

‘You said – speaking of challenges, why Is Rose Potter not up here yet. Why say “speaking of challenges”?’

Parvati and Lavender exchange another look.

‘Her hair!’ finally exclaims Lavender, ‘I mean, the cut of it would be unflattering on anyone, but with how skinny she is – it’s a disaster.’

It's so cliché – but Rose Potter walks into the dorm room precisely in time to hear that. 

Hermione will not forget the way Rose Potter gapes, her cheerful demeanor fading fast, her eyes darkening and her expression stricken. Granted, it lasts only a fraction of a second before she shakes it all off, but Hermione has seen and she commits it to memory.

‘Hey there,’ Rose Potter greets, letting herself in. ‘What’s this I hear about my impossible hair?’

It's like the two girls have never watched a movie play out before. People you you gossip always turn up just in time to hear it. 

‘I – we – ,’ Lavender stutters, gobsmacked.

‘Oh, I know,’ Rose reassures her, and it sounds sincere but Hermione knows better, ‘it is unfit for public appearances, but sadly, I have very little power over it. Usually I put a head band and just pull it back into a ponytail or something but…’

She gestures to her forehead, where her poorly cut bangs fail to hide the infamous scar. 

This is the girl who vanquished the most terrible Dark Lord of their time, and this is the mark she bears. Without knowing why, Hermione thinks of the time she fell from her bike and her mother cleaned her wound very tenderly, wrapping it in a 'magic ribbon' so that it wouldn't scar. 

‘We can help you with that!’ Parvati throws in, eyes assessing Rose's mop of deep scarlet hair. ‘We might have to brew you a hair growth potion, first.’

Lavender squeals and claps. She actually claps. ‘I’ve always wanted to try cutting hair!’

Hermione opens her mouth – who in their right mind would let an eleven year old girl come close to their hair with a pair of scissors? But then she thinks about what the girls have just said – hair growth potion. Not on the curriculum. Extremely fascinating concept. Obviously, small mistakes aren't as permanent in the magical world.

It is a good thing too, because Rose Potter doesn't look wary or skeptical for a second. ‘That would be amazing! I always suspected my hair would be more manageable if it grew out, only I never had a chance to find out.’ She beams.

‘Well, you _are_ a Potter,’ Lavender says slowly, ‘so we can’t bet on that… We’d better order some Sleakeazy, just in case. Or, oh! You order it, Rose! You’ll get great discounts on it!’

Rose’s smile dims. ‘Because of the Girl-who-Lived thing?’

‘What? Oh, no, not that. Well, who knows. But no, no, mostly because Sleakeazy was invented by the Potters! Your family holds the patent and all.’

‘They… they do?’

At that moment, Rose Potter looks nothing like the books make her sound, so small and uncertain is her voice.

Lavender and Parvati launch into a history of the Potter family. It's interesting enough to Hermione, and seems to mean the world to Rose. Soon they diverge into an intricate history of cosmetic advances in the Wizarding World. When they start talking about the merits of each product and how a bit of blush would do wonders for Rose’s complexion, Hermione tunes them out.

 

She opens _Hogwarts: a History_ , and she dreams.

 

000

 

Hermione is very impressed by Percival Weasley.

She is very unimpressed by the twins, and she abhors their younger brother. 

Ronald Weasley keeps looking at her like she is a specimen from outer space. He keeps looking at her like he wants her to shut up, like being around her is a supplice of the tallest order. She's heard him groan when she speaks up in class. 

Hermione knows bullies. They wait before they pounce. They look and see. They find the weaknesses first. 

So.

She thinks Rose Potter should try to vary her friendships.

She says so, too. Ron cannot be a good influence, not with the way he eats with his mouth open and chews so loudly. Not with the sloppy way he hastens through his schoolwork. Not with the way he mutters 'Mental' whenever Hermione speaks up about schedules and rules and theoretical notions of spellwork.

She doesn't say the last one, she doesn't get a chance to. She's still at 'sloppy work' when Rose interrupts her. 'Hermione, stop.' 

'Pardon?'

‘You offered to help me finish my potion essay. Let’s do that, yeah?’

Hermione doesn't know why Rose Potter cares so much about potions this week, but she was so happy to help, they had been swapping knowledge about plants. Rose Potter, it turns out, knew a lot about gardening and chemistry. Hermione rolls her eyes. 'I meant no harm. On the contrary.'  

‘Well, you’re being nasty!’ Rose snaps. In her fist, the feather quill she has so much difficulty writing with, it just cracks. 

Hermione doesn't know what to respond to that. The judgment seems unfair. Hasty.  'I'm stating facts here. Verifiable facts.'

Her voice, she notices, is a bit higher than usual. Oh. 

She feels small, all of a sudden, smaller than when Ron Weasley looks at her with his impatient eyes. She thinks, thank God she waited until the end of their study session to bring it up. They've done good work. Rose will get full grades. 

‘He’s my first friend,' Rose says after folding her notes and rolling her essay. Ready to stand. Ready to go. "Don’t you know what that _means_?’

 

 

Hermione looks down at her own neat homework. ‘I really don’t.’

 

 

000

 

Things are a bit tense in the dormitory for a few days.

 

It eases slowly:

 

Three days later, Hermione speaks up against the fashion intervention Parvati and Lavender insist on staging for Rose. 

 

Four days later, Rose shows the correction of essay. Ten points are taken out for bad penmanship. 

'That's not fair,' Hermione can't help but protest. 

Rose shrugs, but the corners of her mouth tilt up. 'Yeah, but he couldn't find fault with the content.' 

 

Five days later, Hermione passes the potatoes over to Ron, and she says nothing when he thanks her with his mouth full. She wants to, but he had been laughing with Rose, and she doesn't want to be the nasty girl ruining their fun.

Rose notices. 

 

Such small things, but they help, and it doesn't take a full week before the girls can look at each other in the eye again. 

 

 

 

000

 

Lavender, true to her word, tackles the challenge of Hermione’s birthday with energy and flair. She braids garlands of asters and forget-me-nots, the September birth flowers, all over the room. From the magical genus of the forget-me-not, she weaves a flower crown for Hermione to wear throughout the day. Hermione is mortified, but Parvati assures her that it will bring her patience, recognition and focus.

‘I could braid your hair,’ says Alice. Today, the poachers on her nightshirt are being guillotined. Their heads float up like balloons. The ginger girl had winked at Hermione when Hermione had opened her mouth to ask about it, which had made Hermione not ask about it.

‘No, thank you,’ whispers Hermione. The last time someone tried that, it took an age and the hairdresser had banned Hermione from the saloon. 

Rose smiles at her. ‘You look very pretty, Hermione. It's nice, the wild flowers in the wild hair.’

Hermione startles. ‘Thanks,’ she mutters.

Lavender is, perhaps unsurprisingly, quite apt at conjuring shiny things and reflective surfaces. She conjures a mirror for Hermione.

Hermione does not see prettiness. She sees judging eyes, she sees a strong chin. She sees porous, pale skin. She sees big nostrils and big teeth. 

'You're pretty, Hermione,' Rose repeats, insists. 

Parvati and Lavender nod. 'We did good work, you're adorable, don't you dare doubt it. Now, go and be amazing and win us points!'

 

 

000

 

 

Rose and Hermione, friendly if not friends. Their acquaintance has been tentative. Hopeful.

 

Maybe too tentative, too fragile, Rose reflects, because Ron has ruined it easy and quick, like a sunken paper ship.

‘He said I have no friends! That I am an annoying know-it-all! A _nightmare_!’ Hermione sniffles, eyes wild and beseeching. They are in the girls bathroom, and it's the first time Rose does this. This girltalk in the bathroom thingie. The circumstances could be better, Rose thinks as she sees how bloodshot Hermione's eyes are. There are tears tracks underneath them. 

Her first thought is to shake Hermione out of it physically. Alas, that would be taken the wrong way. So she stills her motion, hovering her palms awkwardly. The moment of uncertainty lasts. She probably looks like a zombie who's starving for Hermione's big brain. 

In the end, Rose gives Hermione's shoulder a quick squeeze. ‘There, there.' That's what people did, wasn't it? To comfort. 'He didn’t say that.’

The noise that comes out of Hermione is wounded and furious. ‘Those were HIS – EXACT – WORDS!’

Rose grimaces. ‘He didn’t _mean_ it like that, then.’

‘How dare you defend him!’

Oh, God, Rose thinks, she should have sent Lavender and Padma. She's already making it worse. ‘I’m not defending him! I’m just stating a fact, he didn’t mean it like that!’

‘These words don’t cover a dozen meanings, Rose Potter!’ Hermione screeches, frazzled. ‘How ELSE could he have meant it?’

‘Good question,’ Rose says, stretching out the vowels to get more time to think. Is stalling cowardly? Judging by Hermione’s impatient throat noise, she has an inkling it might be. She answers, the words tumbling all over the place when she does. ‘It’s just… it’s a mix of everything, yeah? Like, when you lecture us, you sound like a condescending know-it-all, you know? No, I’m _not_ insulting you, I’m just – do you ever bother talking to the boys except to tell them they’re wrong? You do that a lot – it’s not always asked for or welcomed, but you always expect to be thanked for it, and that sort of sucks. You _get_ that, right?’

Hermione looks mutinous. ‘So you're saying it’s my fault when Ronald Weasley is being cruel because I'm awful?’

‘No! I’m just saying, that is how it’s perceived. Me? We hashed that out already, kind of . I know you care. You don’t mean it that way – and neither does Ron and that’s my point. Yeah, he sounds like a prat when he says stuff like that – and he really did act like a prat, didn’t he? But he didn’t mean it, not really. And he didn’t want to hurt your feelings.’

Hermione stays silent and, for a fumbling moment, they blink comically at each other. Then Hermione’s gaze steadies, and Rose holds her breath. Eyes are the window to the soul and whatnot, but Rose has never been good at interpreting cues. She has never needed to be -- the Dursleys weren't a subtle sort of people. 

Hermione _might_ get mortally offended. Rose could not blame her, but she doesn’t know how else to explain Ron.

It's not that Ron is complicated. It's the opposite. And that's harder to explain, isn't it?

So Hermione might be vexed and hate her. Or – that’s a big leap, but Rose’s been trying optimism ever since she stepped away from Privet Drive - or, Hermione could see past Rose's badly worded statement and understand the heart of it. Then, they could go forward. Cement their friendship or something. Rose would gladly offer to prank Ron with her to sweeten the deal.

Unfortunately, while they are in this limbo of not-quite-reached-decisions, a troll’s club smash through the bathroom's door, and suddenly they are scrambling and, well.

Priorities.

 

 

000

 

 

'That was mighty scary,' Rose says that night when they're back in the dorms. 

Hermione's breath catch. 'Yes. I've never lied to an adult before,' she admits after a while. 

Rose laughs, soft under the darkness. 

Hermione turns to look at the lump on her friend's bed. Friend, she thinks. Yes. She supposes they are friends now, the three of them. 'You meant the troll.'

'You're funny,' Rose mumbles. 'I wish we'd known earlier, spared this whole stupid mess.'

No, Hermione thinks. She's not being funny. She doesn't say this. A part of her is ashamed -- that really, her heart pumped harder when she fibbed to her favorite teacher than when Rose was dangling from the troll's massive hand. 

She has no experience in proper friendship. This is also scary. 

'I tell a lot of lies,' Rose says almost casually, when Hermione doesn't answer. 

Hermione stirs. She is falling asleep, but that doesn't sound right. And Hermione corrects things when they don't sound right, that's what she does. 'Rubbish, that's a dirty lie.' 

Rose laughs again. 

Hermione frowns. 'No, really. You're kind, Rose.'

'Am I?'

'You are,' Hermione says sternly, as confident as acing an exam. 'I would know, I'm a know-it-all.'

'Mm. All right.That's good, then.' 

 

 

000

 

In the library, she finds all the books about Quidditch. Nobody stops her to say _'eh, Muggleborn, then?'_ but she hunches over them just the same. 

'I could explain the game to you,' Ron offers when he sees how many volumes she has piled up. He's concerned for her health, mental and otherwise, she can tell. 'You'll damage your back with this much to carry around, and then how are we going to win against the next troll?' 

'There is no next troll, Ronald!' Hermione huffs, because honestly. The Hat was right -- Gryffindors always expected adventures and action, they did not even realize how silly they sounded. 'This is a school of learning. We're to measure up to books, not to _danger_.' 

Ron shakes his head, still looking bewildered. 'Well, I could still teach you about Quidditch.' 

_I know_ , Hermione doesn't say. 

She quietly borrows the books, and Ron doesn't offer to help carry them as they return to the Common Room. 

 

 

000

 

 

‘I still can’t believe you set Snape on fire,’ Ron repeats for the ninth time since the match. His glee in attacking a teaching is slightly annoying. Hermione wouldn’t encourage it, but. She has noticed he hasn’t fully let out the breath that caught in his throat as Rose almost fell off her broom.

‘Yes, well,’ Hermione says ever so prim, ‘in this case, it was a matter of necessity.’

Ron’s face looks a little bit constipated and awed all at once.

‘With Snape, it always is,’ he agrees.

 

 

000

 

The moment her parents spot her at Kingcross, they envelop her in a hug. She feels it so, so deep, and she realizes that she hasn't let anyone touch her for more than a moment since September. 

'How was school, love? What did you learn this time?' 

She isn't sure which of her parents asked -- maybe it was both, it is the same question they asked when she got back every afternoon from primary school, and they look relieved that they can ask it again. Her mother laughs happily, tears in the crinkles of her eyes. 

'Yes, how was school, my dear girl?'

Hermione thinks of the troll, thinks of a three-headed-dog and of Nicholas Flamel. She thinks about potions which she brews perfectly with little credit given to her by an horrible teacher, she thinks of the smell of garlic, she thinks of the speed of Quidditch and the colorfulness of Charms. 

The first half she will probably not tell her parents, ever. The second, she has already described at length in heavy letters.

She thinks of Gryffindor and its people and she smiles, bashful. Happy. 'Mum, Dad, I made friends.'

If she were any other girl, she would have crowed. 

If she were any other girl, maybe, it wouldn't mean much, it would have been expected and taken for granted, but she isn't, and this is her victory. 

They hug her again, her parents do, and Mr Granger whispers 'I'm happy' in his daughter's hair, and Mrs Granger cries and, if Pureblood families have anything to say about Muggleborn families making a spectacle of themselves, they keep the sneers silent. 

 

 

000

 

Hermione sends Rose the less boring books she has read about Quidditch for Christmas. 

She sends Ron a rock.

She's not sure why. 

It's a rather nice rock, all things considered. For sure, he'll enjoy it more than getting books. 

Still. 

She also packs a few quality Muggle chocolates for them to share. 

 

000

 

Mysteries and philosopher stones and dragons. 

Hermione has never felt like such a proper, stereotypical Gryffindor. 

_That's what belonging feels like!_ she thinks.

And then they get caught. The thought vanishes. 

 

000

 

It’s been two weeks since the Astronomy Tower.

Two weeks of bad jokes and snide comments, but you'd never guess it from looking at Rose Potter. As a matter of fact, Rose is grinning, again, bright as you please. It’s all just so absurd and Hermione won’t have it anymore.  ‘Stop _doing_ that, Rose.’

‘Do what?’ Rose asks, sounding genuinely confused. Hermione refuses to be fooled. Of course, Rose and Ron always need a few clarifications on academic matters and common sense, but Hermione suspects that, oftentimes, Rose is obtuse on purpose.

‘Hide! You always do it – you storage your feelings away and pretend. You don’t need to put a fake front of happiness, Rose. I’m your _friend_.’

If she's pleading at the end, well. The dragon incident, the subsequent loss of House Points, the shunning, Neville's downtrodden face and complete refusal to talk to them... It has taken a toll. 

Hermione has been bumped into more frequently in the last two weeks than wide corridors could ever justify.

‘Fake front?’

‘Like a mask,’ Hermione confirms.

She has had lots of time to think about this. Her hypothesis about why her friend does it, why she feels the need to lie about her inner turmoil – it shall remain her own for a while yet. However, it’s important to let Rose understand she’s safe to be truly herself. No matter their iffy beginnings, Hermione is done judging and expecting. Truly, she is.  

She tells Rose so, because Rose is watching her mutely instead of opening up to her. ‘It’s not uncommon, but you oughtn’t to feel like you have to put on that glittery layer of artificial cheerfulness for show. We want to know the real Rose. We can deal with bad moods.’

_We will love you still_ , Hermione doesn’t say out loud, but she covers Rose’s hand with her own, as clear a declaration as any.  Because Rose is the only one of them three to keep her chin up. Her smiles are as wide and frequent as before.

It’s driving Hermione a bit mad.

‘Hermione,’ Rose says slowly, ‘every part of me is real.’

Hermione nods. ‘True, to some extent – ‘

‘No, Hermione, to _every_ extent. I like glittery me.’

‘Some people do become their mask, I suppose,’ Hermione grants. This isn’t going quite the way she envisioned it.

Hermione, I feel like you aren’t listening to the words I’m saying.’

‘I am!’ Hermione protests. She’s a very studious listener. ‘Every part of you is real, even the parts that aren’t real. Really, Rose, I could hear you well enough.’

‘Hermione,’ Rose interrupts, and then sighs, as though _Hermione_ is being the difficult one. ‘Okay, never mind.'

A beat.

Hermione is thinking about how to reformulate her point. About other examples to give. Arguments.

Rose isn't.

'Want to help me out with the latest astronomy assignment?’

Hermione huffs. ‘You’re trying to distract me from being a good friend.’

‘Am I?’

Hermione crosses her arms and glares.

Roses shrugs. ‘I don’t want to argue anymore. So you can help me with my homework, or I can ask the twins, they say they’d help me with any creative writing to be done.’

‘The formation of the name and legend of constellations is not creative writing, it is history!’ Hermione snaps, feeling blood rush to her face in one great wave.

'They make it fun, you know.'

Hermione takes in a deep breath. She lets go the fact that her closest friend isn't able to be emotionally honest. That could wait after the homework, after the exams. She'd analyze the conversation, figure out how to reach Rose. In the meantime. In the meantime, she could pick her battles.

‘You will not destroy your academic career because those troublemakers are feeling whimsical, I won’t let you!’

 

000

 

She meant it with the Hat and she meant it with Ron. 

She's there to study. 

That whole You-Know-Who mess... 

Damn it.

She really wishes she could just count on the school to be A School, and on her teachers to Teach And Not Be Evil. 

But she meant it with the Hat, and she meant it to her classmates, and she meant it to herself: 

She can be that girl. She can be a Gryffindor, courageous and fierce. 

And so she goes with her friends to find McGonagall. 

And so when the teachers says no --

Hermione doesn't stop. 

 

 

 

000

 

When Neville says no, Hermione doesn't stop either. 

 

000

 

Except Rose does.

‘That’s horrible, Hermione! Friends don’t do that! Undo it!’

‘Rose! We don’t have the time for this,’ Ron cuts in, waving in the general direction of the third floor corridor. Rose, however, ignores him and turns to Hermione. Her bright green eyes are commanding and imploring.

It's the first time Hermione uses _Petrificus Totalus_ on someone and she did the spell flawlessly. Neville isn't hurt, that's not how this type of magic works. She feels like she should be congratulated for finding the easiest option and executing it with a precise perfection.

Her friends are not good at congratulating her properly.

With a sigh, she loosens her magic, and sees Neville shake.

‘Neville, listen. McGonagall doesn’t believe us, but I think you are more reasonable than her.’ Rose grabs his upper arms and meets his eyes. Neville is as frozen in place as he was a second ago, but Hermione doesn't doubt she has done well dispelling the charm. ‘We’re pretty sure Snape is going to steal something right now to allow Voldemort to come back. He’s been trying all year. Tonight, Dumbledore’s gone. We’re going to stop him.’ She pauses and adds, 'Right now.' 

Neville looks at Rose like she’s crazy. Obviously. It’s a ridiculous tale, to accuse a teacher like that. Hermione wouldn’t believe it if they hadn’t gathered so much evidence over the course of the year.

‘Pretty sure?’ Neville squeaks.

Hermione nods. ‘Rather.’

‘ _Absolutely_ sure,’ Ron assures.

Neville looks bewildered. Rose looks put out. ‘Guys. We aren’t going to do this.’ _Not again_ , she doesn’t add. They had wasted the whole afternoon before Ron and Hermione could agree about the percentage of sureness they stood at. Considering that Hermione had vetoed going to a teacher unless it reached 97%, it was Important. 

Ron scoffs and glares at Neville as though Neville is the one wasting time. ‘I s’pose it all comes down to whether you trust us.’ His eyes get sharper. There is a glint there. ‘Do you trust Rose?’

Hermione barely resists throwing her hands up. Honestly! Of the three of them, she is the one who sticks to facts and logic. She is the one whose presence almost swayed McGonagall. 

She refrains.

She has been friends with the two of them long enough to know this _isn’t_ a slight against her. Ron _isn’t_ implying that Rose is more trustworthy or reliable than she is. This isn’t Potions, where her eagerness to prove herself is squashed by a mean professor. This is real life, where Snape is plotting doom and Ron is playing chess.

From the exasperated look on Rose’s face, Rose is also well aware of the game Ron’s playing, but she’s waiting for Neville’s move. They all are. So Hermione doesn’t grumble. As effortlessly as defensiveness comes, the stakes are higher than her pride.

Also, she has read so many books about chess since her first time playing Ron, and hasn't managed a single win yet. 

Neville’s face circles through various different expressions. Then, he turns to look at Rose, and it clears. There’s a trace of vulnerability in his eyes. ‘I do. Trust you, I mean. If you’re pretty sure.’

Rose beams.

Hermione knows she is the only one who understands Neville’s true sentiment – not that he believes the intricate conspiracy theory they spurted, not fully, not yet. But that he trusts them – or trusts Rose, rather – to not make a fool out of him.

Hermione can’t help but feel he is far braver than she.

 

000

 

‘Thanks,’ Ron mumbles as their swift pace carries them towards the unspeakable dangers of the third floor corridor.

Hermione is always happy to elicit gratitude. She is also happy when Ron shows manners. She asks because she is curious and because she wants to, well, hear him spell it out: ‘What for?’

He looks like she's asking him to bite into a lemon. ‘For not piping up back there.’

Hermione’s mouth drops open. She isn’t sure what to say, so she settles for a _humph_. Then, after a pause, she defends herself. ‘I would not do that.’  _Not anymore, at least,_ she mentally adds.

‘Not anymore, at least,’ Ron unwittingly echoes with a grin.

It makes her want to strangle him. 

But then again, the initial animosity between the both of them means that Ron _knows_ her character flaws. Not just on an abstract, distant level, too. He had to deal with them. He knows her tendency to _correct_ , to straighten out and be as thorough about facts as possible. Or, as Ron called it once, to be "a smartass and a hardass". He knows he will still have to deal with them in the future, because they are friends. It dawns on her. ‘You trusted me.’

She always found it funny, how his ears redden first.

His hand is tight on his old wand. She's Hermione, and she notices these things. ‘I was ninety-seven percent sure, so I figured it ought to be fine.’

She knows he’s saying that to cover his embarrassment, but she can’t help it – ‘I was a breath away from calling you an idiot and demanding to be cited as the credible reference, if you must know.’

‘And you didn’t.’

‘But I almost _did_ , so ninety-seven percent isn’t statistically right.’

‘Except it is. Because my gut feeling was right.’

‘It could have swayed either way, so your calculations were wrong,' Hermione says, because Ron can be very difficult with these things, and he only ever listens to math explanations when Rose gives them. Which isn't fair because Rose, well, Rose isn't good at maths. 'You were wrong.’

Ron is gaping at her. Neville bumps into him. 

‘You’re impossible,’ Ron says, incredulous.

 

 

 

‘ _Alohomora_ ,’ Hermione replies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
